


Two minutes to go

by Lobelia321



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Handjob. Deadline. Bedside table. Laughing., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Lobelia321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This isn't easy for me, either," John said in a rush.  "But here's what I've got to do."  Terrorists made them do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two minutes to go

**Title:** Two minutes to go  
 **Author:** Lobelia;  
lj-user: lobelia321  
 **Fandom:** BBC Sherlock  
 **Pairing:** Sherlock Holmes / John Watson  
 **Rating:** PG-15. Mature.  
 **Length:** c.1,300 words.  
 **Tags:** Handjob. Deadline. Bedside table. Laughing.  
 **Warnings:** Sort of non-con. However, despite what the summary promises, this is not angst.  
 **Spoilers:** Allusions to pool scene 1x03. Mention of bedroom featured in 2x01.  
 **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. Their modern versions are fannish emanations from the brains of Mark Gatiss and Steven Mofatt. I just play with what's left over. No profit made.  
 **Feedback:** Is loved very much. One line, one word even! :-)  
 **Summary:** Terrorists made them do it.

 **A/N:** Written 32 ¾ hours before 2x02. I'm clearly in a state. For those of you familiar with SGA fandom: you know what kink this riffs on, *winks*. (For those who're not: 'Aliens made them do it.')

 

 **Two minutes to go  
by Lobelia**

John rushed into Sherlock's room. The phone was hot in his hand.

He stood panting in the doorway. Nothing moved. His eyes darted hither, thither and yonder.

There. A red dot flickered on the bed.

He wanted to scream out -- _Sherlock! Shit! No!_ \-- but bit his mouth and gripped the door knob so hard it made his palm bulge.

One. Two. Three.

The red dot winked out.

A hundred ideas flashed through John's mind -- police window pistol phone shoot fire escape pretend parry feint -- He dismissed them all. They were a house of cards. There was only one thing to do. And nothing for it.

He was by Sherlock's bedside, his knees hard on the floorboards.

Sherlock's breath came deep and slow. Too deep and slow. It was the sleep of someone under the influence of something. There was the delay at the end of each inhalation and the slight apnoeia associated with ketamine. Also, could he smell juniper?

No matter, no time, no excuse. No cause to wonder if this would impede performance.

"Sherlock", he whispered, knowing even as he did so that it would have no effect. He glanced at the bedside table. The alarm clock blinked, '03.17'. The hallway light gleamed on a round glass -- water? Gin. Packets scattered across the table's surface.

No time to examine any of this.

"Sherlock," he said in his normal waking voice. He put his hand on a round, sheet-entangled shoulder and shook.

A pin dropped from a shelf.

"Wake up. Sherlock. _Wake_ up."

"Hunh?" Sherlock groaned and rolled over. "What?" His voice was bleary. John couldn't see his face, only two gleams where his eyes had opened. "John?"

"Listen, there's no time to explain. But." He took a deep breath. "Do you trust me?"

"What time is it?"

"I need to do something."

"Mycroft. Why does he have to pick the middle of the bloody--"

"It's not Mycroft. Shut up."

Sherlock was on his elbows. John could just make out his contours, struggling with the sheets.

"It's best if you... lie down." John stared around the room again, wildly, for some last-minute rescue. The clock went _tock_ and flipped over to '03.18'. "There's something I've got to do."

"What? What is it that you've got to do? Can I have a--" The mattress squirmed and Sherlock's hand clinked against glass.

"No, you can't. Or perhaps. Yes. Why not? It might help."

John heard a pause. He sensed the question mark within the pause.

"This isn't easy for me, either," John said in a rush. "But here's what I've got to do. I've got to."

"What did you mean: 'it might help'?"

"Touch you."

"Sorry?"

"I've got to touch you, all right? Look, just make this easy for both of us and take off your sheets and take off your. You know."

"Are you drunk?"

"I'm not. No." He gave a hysterical laugh. "I wish I were but no. And if." Another hundred options flitted through John's mind but there was no way under it and no way over it and no way out of it. "If I don't. I mean, if we don't do this you will die."

"John. I don't understand a word of what you're saying."

John glanced at the clock in desperation. "We have eight minutes left. Can you have an orgasm in eight minutes?"

There was a choked cough.

"I know, I know," John said. "But there's some sort of kinky, sick. Sick _fuck_ out there. And who knows if he's got a camera wired up or just gets off on it or gets off on the humiliation. We can think about all of that later but for now, the quickest way--" He gave an exasperated sigh. "Just think of it as a medical procedure."

"Did you just say _orgasm_?"

John lifted Sherlock's sheet. There were no pyjama bottoms to take off. Sherlock appeared to be sleeping in his dressing gown.

"Get off me."

"I _have_ to do this."

"No, you don't. What's the deadline?"

 _Tock_ , went the clock.

"Seven minutes." A hopeless numbness crept into John's lungs.

"Seven minutes. That should give us enough time. Tell me how you know this. Ah, no, don't tell me, I see it in your hand: mobile phone. You're still clutching it, that means you got an important message on it. That means the message is from whoever dreamt up this little scheme. Was it a text? Who was it from? Who did it _claim_ to be from? Is this even your phone? No, it's not, let me hold it, it's got one of those knobbly attachments at the top, your phone doesn't have that. Person rang in the middle of the night: loves drama. Person has installed some device in the room to ensure compliance, is threatening me, has threatened you. But must have some means of confirming, there are probably surveillance-- What? _Oh._ "

John had dropped the phone and closed his fist around Sherlock's cock.

"Stop it," said Sherlock.

"You've an erection already," said John.

"That-- just happens sometimes."

"It's good. It helps. Saves time." John started moving his hand.

"Will you stop it?" hissed Sherlock.

"Do you think I'm happy about this?" John hissed back. "We have..." Quick glance. "...four minutes so just shut up and lie back and think of England. Or whatever you need to think of."

"We don't have to play this game--" Sherlock struggled to sit up.

John pushed him back with his other hand. "Lie _still_. Doctor's orders." He was sweating now. But if he just kept his hand moving, in dogged up-and-down motion, if he just kept it nice and simple, surely even Sherlock would sooner or later...?

It turned out to be sooner.

Hardly had John got into some sort of a rhythmic stride than he felt the tell-tale tightening of testicular muscles, the thickening of blood vessels and the warm flow of semen on his hand.

"Shit," he blurted.

"God," Sherlock gasped.

"Two minutes. Two to go." Dizziness set in. The room spun. John could hear his own breath: loud, uncouth gulps. He'd clearly been holding it for the last half-minute. "That was. Well done." He pulled his hand away and crouched panting.

"You're good at this," said Sherlock in an out-of-breath voice.

"No need to sound so surprised." Hysteria bubbled up into John's throat; he forced it down but then couldn't help a grin.

Sherlock was there ahead of him. He burst into wild laughter.

It pulled at the corners of John's eyes, and then he was laughing, too. He held onto the edge of the bed and shook with the laughing.

Post-adrenaline come-down. Epinephrine rush. "I try," John gasped, "I try."

"Do you think that was it then?" said Sherlock. "Have the hounds been called off?"

"I need a tissue. D'you have tissues on this table of yours?"

"Check the phone." Sounds scrabbled. Packets of something slithered to the floor. Then the bedside lamp came on. Sherlock lay flushed against his pillow. Locks of fringe fell into his eyes. "There may be another message."

As if on cue, the phone went _peep_.

John glanced at it. It had fallen face-down on the floor.

"Maybe he wants us to do a replay? The other way round?" Sherlock said.

John felt his ears go hot. "The other way round?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, stretched across and put his hand on John's crotch.

THE END.

\----

All original bits © Lobelia321  
Written and posted on 7 January 2012.

LJ: http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/758630.html  
A03: http://archiveofourown.org/works/315109


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